Bob Shryock: A 'Strut' that went too far

I’ve got all these fantasies that never materialize, such as beating Tiger Woods for the Gloucester County match play championship, or winning a few million bucks in one of the lottery jackpots, or singing “Ebb Tide” backed up by the Righteous Brothers on Broadway.

But the fantasy that has eluded me for seven years, and presumably for every year I’m on this planet hereafter, is winning the technical merit award in “Dancing With Gloucester County Stars.” There it is, the confession: I’ve always wanted to display my moves in this venue. But now, hampered by a few ailments which restrict my mobility, I’m just a spectator while others strut their stuff.

“Strut,” by the way, is the optimum word here. As proficient a jitterbugger as I’ve been since twirling the late Barbara Britsch Grove at The Big Dipper in the ’50s, I’ve been a showman (show off?) as a world class Mummers’ Strutter since moving to the Delaware Valley in 1964. Just ask the crowd at the Underwood-Memorial Hospital Foundation Ball.

In fact, in the mid-’70s I nearly landed in jail for an excessive Strut in a Point Pleasant beach bar. "Excessive” isn’t far off the mark.

OK, what was I doing in a Point Pleasant Beach bar? Working for a rival South Jersey newspaper whose news staff was on a weekend retreat at the publisher’s summer home.

We were having a libation, or two, when the house band began playing “Golden Slippers.”

When I hear that song, or, for that matter, any associated with the Strut, my legs begin churning uncontrollably and my engine starts.

“Go ahead, Bob,” said a compatriot who had seen my act previously as he playfully jabbed others in their ribs.

That was all the motivation required.

With the large dance floor cleared, I started slowly, performed a flawless double pirouette, and soon, within a minute, was racing nonstop back and forth, sweating profusely, my sports jacket now removed.

By now, most of the bar’s 50 or 60 patrons had encircled the dance floor to watch the wacko from Gloucester County.

The band, a collection of retired men in their 70s and 80s, played an extra stanza or three. The noise level was high.

Then I made a small tactical blunder.

Running toward the band at full speed, I did a somersault and fell into the bass drum and out the other side.

The band abruptly stopped playing. The crowd, quiet for a few seconds, unleashed thunderous applause, some believing my faux pas was part of the act.

Amazingly, I was uninjured. Despite landing on the bass drummer’s foot, he was not hurt, either. All of the bandsmen were in shock. The band leader, who had been so supportive of my impromptu performance, shifted quickly from shock to outrage.

“You guys are good,” I told the leader, dusting myself off. “Does this mean the Struts are over for the night?”

Unamused, he told me if I returned the following night the band would refuse to play, except he used more colorful words.